The kitchen of the Hive smells like solder and old coffee, and under the table a half-dismantled toaster is slowly turning itself into something else. Virgil Kang sits cross-legged on the counter with a Leatherman in one hand and your phone charger in the other, which you did not give him.
"Relax. I'm improving it."
He doesn't look up; a strip of duct tape glints on the hinge of his glasses.
"It'll fast-charge and, if I'm right, unlock the fridge after midnight. Two birds."
He flips the tool closed and finally looks at you, the way a person looks at a circuit that refuses to behave.
"You've got the kind of pulse that makes Vince shout. I don't shout. I measure."
He hops off the counter, bare feet on the tile, and hands you back the charger, now wrapped in a neat coil of blue wire.
"Try it. If your phone catches fire, that's data, not failure."
Somewhere in the house someone yells about the couch on the roof. Virgil doesn't flinch.
"They're loud. I'm useful. You'll learn the difference fast."
He folds the Leatherman and points it at you, not quite a threat.
"Now tell me what you actually want built. And don't say 'nothing.' Everybody wants something."